


Scars and Sentiment

by Mithen



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the Liberator crew attempts to establish an alliance with a resource-rich but reclusive planet with a mania for ancient Terran customs, a transporter malfunction causes Blake and Avon to switch bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars and Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally published in the zine ['Pride and Prejudice'](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice_\(Blake%27s_7_zine\)) (ed. Aralias, 2015). You can read other fics from this zine by searching [the collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/PrideandPrejudice). You can also purchase your very own copy of the zine by contacting the publisher.

Blake knew something was wrong even before the brief flash of disorientation from the teleporter had worn off.  He started to take a step forward, squinting against the odd sparkle fading from his eyes, and turned to ask Avon if he had experienced the same visual effect–but Avon was not there.

 

Blake felt a flash of panic–Avon had been _right there_ on his left as Vila worked the teleporter–and spun, looking for his (infuriating, galling, inexplicably attractive gadfly of a) crewmate.  He didn’t see him.

 

He did, however, see _himself_.

 

For a second he thought they had teleported down next to a mirror, for the look of shock and worry on the face he saw matched his own emotions perfectly.  But then the mirror-image narrowed its eyes, frowning– and at the same moment Blake realised his clothes felt all wrong.  The trousers were tighter than he was used to, for one thing.  He glanced at his hands and –oh.

 

_Oh._

 

“Welcome, Mister Blake!” A voice cut in on Blake’s consternation, and he looked up to see a man stepping forward to shake hands with the person who looked like Blake.  Blake saw his own mouth quirk and an eyebrow raise, and that banished any doubt he might still have had, because the expression was entirely _Avon_ _’s_ , albeit filtered through Blake’s features.

 

The reason Avon was using Blake’s mouth to smirk like that was most likely the outfit the man greeting them was wearing.  Blake had seen costumes reminiscent of it on Freedom City–the high collar and ruffled neck-tie, the tailcoat (of sparkling gold lamė), the extremely tight breeches and high-heeled boots.  “And welcome,” the man was saying to him now with a bow, “Sir Avon, to the humble planet of Boh Brum El.  Our greatest thanks to you for coming to assist us in our hour of dire need.”

 

Blake looked down at his hands– Avon’s hands, blunt and capable–then up at the face of his companion, framed by curly brown hair.

 

Avon gave him a look that was familiar both from seeing it on Avon’s usual face and from feeling it on his own:

 

_What kind of mess have we gotten into now?_

 

* * *

 

“Are you _mad_?” hissed Avon a few minutes later, looking quite a bit as if he were resisting the urge to grab his own body by the lapels.  He–as Blake–had requested a moment to recover before meeting with the ruler of Boh Brum El, and had been cordially ushered to a small waiting room decorated with a great deal of gilt and mirrors.  “Let’s say–speaking hypothetically–that we do as you suggest and tell them the truth:  our teleporter technology has malfunctioned, and we have no idea what went wrong.  Their goodwill and potential aid in your little rebellion is dependent on us fulfilling our promise to find a cure for this grain blight they have.  Would you trust someone to find a cure for a disease if they couldn’t even _keep their own bodies straight?_ _”_

 

“We’ve both been in contact with Sylvestre–he’s going to know right away that–“

 

“–He doesn’t know us _that_ well,” Avon said.  “He knows that I’m brilliant and you’re autocratic –“

 

“–That you’re irascible and I’m charismatic, you mean?”

 

“That we are what we are,” Avon said, “But he doesn’t know us intimately.  We can do this.”  He shrugged.  “Or you can tell them and hope they don’t decide to ask the Federation for help instead.  I’m sure your faith in human nature will pay off.”

 

“Have it your way,” Blake said, aiming for “magnanimous” and hitting “grouchy” instead.  He  raised his bracelet to his mouth, not breaking eye contact with Avon– though it was difficult in the extreme to keep glaring at _his own eyes._   “Orac, have you got all that?”

 

“Yes, yes,”sniffed Orac’s voice.  “It’s a simple matter of quantum mechanics– the presence of an O-type star in such close proximity to this system caused an unpredictable flux in the _Liberator_ _’s_ electromagnetic field.  I am working with Zen to see if the process is reversible.”

 

 _“‘If_ _”?_ _”_   Avon’s voice cracked with horror.  “Orac, work faster!”

 

“Blake--”started Orac.

 

“It’s _Avon,_ ” snapped Avon, sounding put out in a way that only Avon ever managed, a special way that was all prickles and ice.  It sounded… distinctly odd coming from Blake’s own larynx.  Was his voice usually that high?  Blake didn’t believe it.

 

“Very well, Avon. I shall focus on it until you see fit to supply me with some of the blighted grain in question.  Then, of course, I shall have to split some of my energy to analyse the grain and synthesise a cure.”

 

“Of course,” said Blake, ignoring Avon’s glare.  “If we don’t find a cure to that blight millions of people will be starving here within a year. That’s more important than our temporary inconvenience.”

 

“This is hardly an _inconvenience_ , and it may not even be _temporary_ ,” noted Avon as the connection broke.  “If you think I’m willing to walk around forever stuck in _this_ –”  He delivered a stinging slap to his own midsection, then winced.

 

“I’d thank you not to take advantage of the opportunity to take your anger out on my body,” Blake said as mildly as he could manage.  “Look on the bright side, you’ve gained some height in the trade.”

 

Avon spread his fingers wide and stared at them– first the backs, and then the palms.  “I’m going to have to pretend to be you,” he muttered.  “That’s impossible.”

 

“Whereas I shall have quite the easy job of it,” Blake said.  He was beginning to find a kind of dark humour in all this.  “All I have to do is be as unpleasant as possible, and no one will know the difference.”

 

Avon opened his mouth–but before he could say anything there was a discreet rap at the door.  “Come in,” they both said in unison.

 

The gold lamė-clad functionary from before was there, smiling and bowing, holding two armfuls of cloth.  “Gentlemen,” he said, “The Prince Regent has asked that you dress in the correct fashions during your stay with us.  For there shall be a grand ball in your honour this evening, of course!”

 

“But… we’re just here to help you with the grain blight," Blake said.  “We’re not–”

 

The man–his name, Blake remembered, was Sylvestre–held up a warning hand.  “No, my lords, such remonstrations will never do!  We here on Boh Brum El have visitors rarely, but we pride ourselves all the more on our hospitality.  Did we not name our very planet after the epitome of Ancient Earth’s most fashionable and charming man?  We strive to match always his effortless elegance, and as such, I can assure you that your stay here will be a veritable whirl of social delights.”  He clasped his hands together rapturously, causing the armfuls of cloth to rustle.  “The Prince Regent looks forward very much to discussing what role Boh Brum El could play in your Rebellion, my lords.  And so I must beg you–”  he held out the clothes again, smiling toothily, “–to indulge us and partake of our hospitality.”

 

“Very well,” said Avon, managing to sound not the least bit gracious about it.  Sylvestre (he went by “Duke of Salford” or something, but Blake hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of the planet’s naming conventions) deposited the clothes on a long couch of some sort, bowed deeply, and left the room again.

 

“Remind me why we’re dealing with this planet once more?” Avon said, holding up an emerald-green topcoat stitched with gold thread and eyeing it with distaste.

 

Blake sighed.  “They are poised on the brink of rebellion with the Federation, and for all their deliberately archaic style, the mines of Boh Brum El produce the purest synchysite in the known galaxy.  The planet is notoriously isolationist and has allowed visitors only rarely in the last centuries, so we don’t know much about them.”  He picked up a pair of silky white stockings.  “But from their pleas for help, the grain blight could well destabilise the whole society, and it would be an act of mercy to help them.”

 

“An act of mercy would be burning _this_ ,” Avon said, brandishing a peacock-blue waistcoat.

 

“Oh come on,” said Blake.  “Is it really much more absurd than some of the costumes in our own wardrobe?”

 

Avon unfurled something that looked like a large square of lace.  “Yes.”

 

“Oh good,” said Blake, “they included an instruction sheet.  That appears to be something called an ‘ascot.’”

 

“How lovely,”sneered Avon.  It was not a charming look on Blake’s face–Blake wasn’t sure how it managed to so often be a charming look on _Avon_ _’s_ face, but there was no denying it did.

 

“Well, we don’t want to offend our hosts, so…”  Blake’s voice trailed off as he suddenly realised the awkwardness of the situation.  “Uh.  Do I have your permission to…?”  He made vague motions with his hands.

 

“Undress my body?” 

 

“I’m…not sure I would have put it that way,” Blake muttered.

 

“Go right ahead,” Avon said with a wave of his hand.  “If we’re trapped like this for long, it’s unavoidable anyway.”

 

Blake started to unzip Avon’s black, high-collared jacket it was strange how the motions all felt familiar as long as he didn’t look down at the hands and see that they weren’t his.  He looked over as Avon shrugged his shirt to the ground unceremoniously, then stepped out of his trousers.  Blake grimaced thoughtfully–it was not exactly a pleasurable aesthetic experience to see one’s body from the outside–but Avon took no notice of either his gaze or of his own body.  He left his pants on, for which Blake was very grateful, and put on the tight breeches with quick efficiency, tugging them up his legs.

 

Blake quickly followed suit, aiming for the same nonchalance and not looking down a great deal.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted (rather often) to see Avon’s body without clothing on, but the current circumstances weren’t exactly what he had ever imagined.  As he pulled on the breeches he felt his fingers catch and skitter over roughness and looked down without thinking to see a long, creased scar that ran from Avon’s hip almost to his knee, the skin puckered and shiny along it.  “What–?” he started to ask without thinking.

 

“It’s nothing,” Avon snapped.  “A youthful accident.  Get some clothes on my body, for heaven’s sake.”  By the time Blake had shrugged into the silver-grey morning coat, with mother-of-pearl buttons that ran up the side, Avon was busily fussing with the swath of lace.  “Hold still,” he said, throwing it around Blake’s neck and starting to tie it into some kind of complex knot.  “I think I’ve got this right.”

 

The collar of the shirt was very high and very stiff. Blake swallowed at the uncanny sight of his own face so nearby, the expression of focused intensity not at all his.  Avon had already managed to get his own ascot tied without any help, and Blake found his fingers itching to undo his work and re-do it himself.  He drummed his fingers on his thigh instead, knowing it would look impatient.

 

“Gentlemen!”  Sylvestre’s voice chimed from the door, and they turned to take in his rapturous face.  “Oh, now you do look like pinks of the Ton!”

 

Blake had no idea what those were, but he managed an awkward bow that seemed to be taken as the appropriate response.

 

“The Prince Regent has sent a barouche for you to escort you to the soiree tonight,” said Sylvestre.  “He himself drives a phaeton, of course, but you gentlemen can’t be expected to be such good hands with the whip.  The barouche is pulled by two of his finest steeds: a high-stepping pair of greys. Wondrous smooth gaited, you’ll see!”

 

Avon shot Blake a bewildered glance as they were ushered out of the building and onto a wide set of marble steps leading down to a bustling city street, the buildings odd and ornate.  At the bottom of the steps was a carriage of some sort, a wheeled contraption being pulled by two large, dappled-grey lizards who eyed Blake and Avon imperiously as they approached behind Sylvestre.  One flicked out a shockingly long, pink tongue to taste the air, then turned back to contemplating the sky.

 

“They’re beauties, aren’t they?” Sylvestre said appreciatively as he opened the door to the carriage.

 

“Quite,”Avon said drily.

 

Sylvestre took up a position standing at the back of the carriage and flicked a light whip over the heads of the lizards, who took off down the street at a credible canter, jostling Blake up against Avon uncomfortably.  It was a distinctly unpleasant experience to be elbowed in the ribs by your own elbow, he thought ruefully.  He watched the passing buildings, brooding until he felt his hand slapped and realised he’d absent-mindedly lifted his hand and been about to nibble on his–on _Avon_ _’s_ –thumbnail.  “Sorry,” he muttered to Avon’s disconcertingly alien/familiar glare.

 

The carriage eventually pulled up before a vast building of white stone, and Sylvestre led them up another endless flight of stairs and ushered them into a room hung with red drapery and softly glowing lamps, filled with people in ornate costumes.  “Lords Blake and Avon, of the _Liberator_!” he announced.

 

Everyone in the room turned to look at them, and a corpulent, red-nosed man in various shades of purple stepped forward, beaming.  “Mister Blake!” he said.  “I am the Prince Regent of Boh Brum El.  What a pleasure to meet the great revolutionary.  Please, have some champagne and strawberries.”

 

Blake opened his mouth, then closed it again as Avon stepped forward and took the Prince Regent’s hand.  “The pleasure is mine, sir,” he said.“But surely this is no time to be dining!”  He drew himself up dramatically and threw an arm out. “The future of your world hangs in the balance, and we of the Rebellion need your aid against the evils of the Federation, which seeks to oppress and enslave your people!  Join us and fight the tyranny of… of ...”

 

He trailed off as everyone – including Blake–stared at him.

 

“ _Blake_ ,” snarled Blake (Avon’s voice was even better than his own for snarling), “There’s no reason to be quite so–” _ridiculous_ “–strident, you know.  It’s not like you to berate your hosts.”

 

“Really?”  Avon looked down at his hands again.  “I thought I was behaving rather normally.”

 

“No,” said Blake firmly.  “You are not usually like this.  My apologies, Prince Regent,” he added as Avon opened his mouth to contradict him, “He’s quite worried about the prospect of a famine on your world–it’s had a powerful effect on him.”

 

The Prince Regent nodded soberly, lifting his champagne flute to his lips.  “It has on all of us, Mister Avon!  Your leader is a fine man, a fine man indeed; a man of sensibility.  It must be an honour to work so closely with him.”

 

“He’s not my _leader_ ,” Blake pointed out.  It wasn’t difficult to achieve a dry and cutting tone when he could practically hear Avon’s probable response ringing in his ears.  “And if one considers it an honour to constantly be put in danger for an idealism that’s as hare-brained as it is megalomaniacal, then yes, I am reminded of how _honoured_ I am every time someone shoots at me.”

 

This time the Prince Regent looked distinctly nonplussed.  “Err, indeed,” he said dubiously.

 

A lady in an iridescent corset tittered and hid her mouth behind a gloved hand.  “Well, Sir Avon, if you wish refuge, I’m sure one with your wit could find a place here!”  She made a small moue with her pink lips, looking concerned.  “But truly, are you, as you imply, being held against your will?”

 

“He is not,” asserted the man who looked like Blake, crossing his arms and scowling at the actual Blake.

 

“Oh?” said Blake.  He was beginning to get the hang of this.  “I believe I’ve said something along those lines more than once.  It’s just like the great pig-headed Blake to run roughshod over such concerns, putting people’s lives in danger for the sake of his–”

 

“The grain,” Avon snapped.  Everyone looked at him.  “We’ll talk about this later, _Avon_ ,” he said with a glare.  “Right now there are people at risk of starving, and we need a sample of the blighted grain to send back to our ship for analysis.”

 

“Oh.  Yes, quite,” said the Prince Regent.  “Sylvestre, dear chap, do you have–?”

 

“Right here, my liege,” said Sylvestre with a bow, handing a small silver canister to the Prince Regent, who then handed it (with a smaller bow) to Blake.  “Made to your specifications.”

 

Blake opened the canister and shook a few grains into his hand, squinting at it before he realised he had no idea what he was looking for.  It was silvery-grey–he assumed that wasn’t right.  “I see,”he said.

 

“I– _you_ asked that it be the right size to fit a bracelet around it comfortably,” said Avon.

 

“Right,” Blake said, relieved.  He took off his bracelet and clipped it around the canister, where indeed it fit perfectly.  “Orac,” he said, “Can you teleport this canister up?”

 

“A ridiculous and superfluous question,” crackled the voice from the bracelet,“since I gave you the specifications.  Unusually obtuse for you, Avon.  I would usually expect such a thing from–”

 

“Yes, right,” said Blake hastily.  “It’s ready to go up.”  The canister shone, warped a bit, and disappeared, to appreciative murmurs from the court.

 

“Orac,” said Avon, “Have you made any progress on that… other side project?”

 

“He has,” said Cally’s voice, level and reassuring.  “But for now why don’t you stay there and enjoy the sights?”

 

No solution yet, in other words.  And if Orac prioritised the grain, as Blake thought it should, then the solution might take even longer.  Blake sighed and heard the sigh echoed with eerie half-familiarity from his own body.

 

“Thank you, Cally,” said Avon.

 

“How delightful,” said the Prince Regent.  “We have prepared a repast and a ball for you this evening!  Sylvestre will give you a moment to collect yourself, and then it shall be dancing and flirtation with our handsome guests!”  He clapped his gloved hands together and all the court echoed him.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you dare,” said Avon from behind him, and Blake dropped his hand from his mouth again.

 

“I just don’t see why it’s taking Orac so long,” snarled Blake, glaring at his own figure in the full-length mirror as he paced, because it felt more natural to glare at Avon’s face than his own.

  
“He is trying to do two rather complex things at once,” Avon pointed out.  “It looks like we’re doomed to an evening of dancing and dining.  A shame Vila wasn’t the one who came down – he’d’ve have a grand time.”  He thought for a moment.  “Though I don’t think I’d have preferred to get stuck in Vila’s body, really.”

 

Blake stopped pacing and grimaced gloomily at himself, watching Avon’s face contort in something like disgust.  “Why did you say all those ridiculous things?” he heard himself say.  “You made me sound like a… pompous jerk.”

 

Avon looked away from him, smoothing the velveteen of his breeches with one hand without seeming to realise it.  “Would you believe I was aiming for ‘inspiring and resonant’?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Well, I was.  It’s not… a mode I’m used to.”  He looked up at Blake.  “Speaking of ridiculous, what was all that about you basically holding me captive against my will?  Don’t try to look innocent,” he went on.“That was your implication– that I’d be scuttling off as soon as possible if you gave me a moment.”

 

“Well,” said Blake, feeling suddenly adrift somehow.  “Wouldn’t you be?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Avon said, frowning.  “But it sounds wrong when _you_ say it. You’re supposed to be obstinately certain I’ll stay by your side no matter what.”

 

“I am,” Blake said.  “Actually, I am.”

 

Something in the lines of the face of the man before him shifted and settled. It was oddly difficult to read one’s own expression, but Blake would have almost guessed this was what he looked like when he was satisfied.  Before he had a chance to pin it down, Avon glanced at the timepiece on the wall. 

 

“I suppose we must get out to this tedious shindig with these vapid people,” he said.

 

Blake held out his hand.  “May I have the pleasure of the first dance?”

 

Avon stared at him.  Then he threw back his head and laughed.  Blake had never thought of himself as having an attractive laugh, but at that moment-- 

 

“Certainly,” Avon said, taking Blake’s hand.  “But I lead.”

 

“Just this once,” said Blake.

 

* * *

 

 As it turned out, neither of them really knew how to dance well enough to make a go of it on the dance floor, and after a couple of awkward attempts and tripping over each others’ feet, they apologised to their hosts and simply watched the others dancing. 

 

“I think I could do better if I was in my own body,” Blake muttered under his breath as he and Avon nibbled on what seemed to be iced bonbons.  He took another sip of the drink he’d been given– something clear and rather strong. The room was warm and he felt the urge to undo his ascot, but resisted the temptation. 

 

“Well, I sincerely doubt I would do better in my own,” Avon observed.  He eyed a bonbon dubiously before popping it in his mouth.   “Frankly, you are more coordinated than I am.”

 

Blake couldn’t help but smile at him.  “When we get ourselves switched back, we’ll have to give dancing another try.”

 

Avon arched an eyebrow, a look that was all Avon’s no matter how Blake the face was.  “You almost seem to be enjoying yourself.”

 

“Well,” Blake admitted, “I confess this wasn’t exactly the way I had hoped to get into your body, but–”

 

He froze as he heard his own words.  Avon frowned thoughtfully.  “It occurs to me,”said Avon, “That my body’s alcohol tolerance might be rather different than you’re used to.”

 

“Oh,”said Blake.  He squinted uneasily.  “Will you just pretend I didn’t say that, then?”

 

“It depends on how exactly you meant it.”  As Blake struggled to formulate an answer, Avon stood up abruptly.  “Never mind.  Shall we take a walk and get some fresh air?”

 

“That sounds good,” Blake agreed, standing up on legs that were only slightly unsteady.  They made their excuses to the Prince Regent and Sylvestre and walked out onto the veranda, lit by the azure light of two large moons.

 

“Remember that scar you saw on my leg?” Avon said.

 

Blake nodded, resisting an impulse to touch it again.

 

“It aches when it’s cold, sometimes,” Avon said.  “I got it when I was a very young man.  My brother was playing with his hoverboard. Mother and Father got him one for his birthday because he begged so hard and so long for it. He was doing some stupid trick, and ran in front of a tram.  I jumped without thinking–” He shrugged. “As it turned out, he didn’t even need me to save him, the tram was going to miss him anyway.  I spent a week in the hospital, feeling foolish.”

 

“Ah,” said Blake.  The cool air was shredding his tipsiness, but he still felt rather foolish and off-balance himself.  “Why exactly are you telling me this?”

 

Avon reached out and placed a hand on Blake's hip, resting lightly over the scar hidden by the brocaded breeches. At another time, in another situation, the gesture would have been uncomfortably intimate, even if welcome.  As it was, with the fact that Avon was touching his own body and Blake just happened to be there – it was too odd to even be uncomfortable.  But not too odd to be quite intimate.  "If you are, as you put it, going to be inside my body, perhaps I want you know what my scars are, and why I have them."

 

"Because you care more than you want to," Blake said without thinking. Avon gave him an opaque look (Blake made a small mental note to ask him how he achieved that look with Blake's face later) and pulled away, turning to look out over the city once more. 

 

“If–Orac forbid– you’re stuck as me permanently, you'll have to learn to not say things like that, especially not in that tone of voice. It doesn't suit me."

 

"Hm," said Blake as he heard the veranda door click open behind them.  "I rather think it does."

 

He was about to say more, but then he felt the distinctive sensation of a blaster muzzle nudging his back and closed his mouth again.

 

“Hello, Avon,” said Servalan.

 

* * *

 

 Servalan had taken time with her wardrobe, and was quite aware that she was looking radiant in a silvery-white dress, the bodice wrapped with intricate satin cords.  Her dark hair had been tucked under a wide bonnet trimmed with sweeping, nodding feathers and a tasteful amount of lace. Overall one of her more striking outfits, she believed.  Certainly Avon seemed to think so, as he was blinking at her speechlessly.  It wasn’t like him to be so rattled by having a blaster pointed at him, so she decided to take it was a gratifying response to her raiment.

 

“The Prince Regent sold you out,” she observed, smiling.  “You thought you could trust them?  How sad. They are quite, quite desperate, and the Federation has promised them a cure for the blight. In exchange for Blake, of course.”

 

“Quite sporting of you, considering you manufactured the blight in the first place,” Blake said bitterly.

 

Servalan blinked at him in surprise for a second, then threw back her head in a peal of silvery laughter.  “Why Blake,” she said, “how uncharacteristically cynical of you!”  Blake’s mouth compressed into a tight, annoyed line as she shrugged.  “But yes, the blight is Federation-made.  One of our more subtle weapons.”

 

“The Federation is as _subtle_ as a bludgeon to the head,” Avon snarled.

 

She cocked her head to the side, considering him.  “We can be quite subtle if we need to be.  For example, I personally feel no pressing need to bring Blake to another trial.  If he were to simply vanish on this isolated planet, none would be the wiser. The Prince Regent will get the formula for the antidote–I just happen to have it with me –and two rebels will simply… disappear.”  She graced Avon with one of her more luminous and poisonous smiles.  “Or perhaps just the one of you.”

 

With a sudden movement, she stepped sideways and turned the blaster on Blake.

 

“Avon,” she said coaxingly, looking at him. “It would be such a waste to throw your life away!  There’s no need to destroy both of you.  I’m sure we can work out some kind of deal.”  Avon’s eyes had gone oddly wide and his throat worked. “Come with me.  We could make an excellent team.  But I’m afraid Blake will die this night.”

 

“No!” Avon cried, putting out a hand.  “Don’t, you don’t understand, _I_ _’m_ Blake.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I’m the one you want, I’m Roj Blake, he’s Avon, there was a malfunction with our teleport, don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt him,” Avon said. Servalan had never heard Kerr Avon _babble_ before.

 

Beside her, Blake sighed, a deeply exasperated sound.  “Oh, for the love of–”

 

“Tell her,” Avon snapped.  “Why aren’t you—? Servalan, he’s actually Avon, I swear it. We switched bodies. What is _wrong_ with you, Avon?  _Tell her!_ ”

 

“Tell her what?” Blake’s voice was utterly flat.  “There’s nothing to tell, Avon–”

 

“ _Don_ _’t call me Avon!_ ”  Avon’s eyes were frantic.  “Servalan, listen. There must be some way I can prove to you–”

 

Servalan shook her head in a dawning mix of amusement and disgust.  “Kerr Avon, all this time I thought you were above tawdry emotions.  And it turns out you’re willing to come up with the most utterly ludicrous scenario to try and justify–Look at you!  Look at the panic you’re in!  Why, Avon…”  She savoured the sweetly cruel smile for a moment, “I do believe you’re in love with this man.”

 

“Just let him go,” whispered Avon.  Next to her Blake, staring at his face, made a small sound.  “Please.  You have to believe me that I’m the man you want.”

 

She shook her head pityingly.  “Avon, once I might even have believed that. Not the ridiculous way you mean, but still.  But now it’s quite, quite clear that you are _not_ the man I want.  So I’m afraid you’ll both have to die.”

 

Smiling, she started to tighten her finger on the trigger–and gasped in alarm as a cage of energy suddenly sprang up from the floor, encasing her in golden light. 

 

“What is the meaning of his outrage!” she snarled as the Prince Regent appeared at the veranda door, the toady Sylvestre at his side.  “I demand you release me at once!”

 

The Prince Regent bowed to her.  “And we shall do so, Supreme Commander–as soon as you give us the antidote to the blight.  Yes, you were unwise to admit out loud that you manufactured it, although we always had our suspicions.” 

 

“And so you used us as bait to get her down here,” Blake said.

 

The Prince Regent bowed to both of them, more deeply this time.  “Indeed, gentlemen.  I regret the ruse, but it was necessary to get proof that the Federation was behind the blight, as well as gain the antidote.”

 

“I understand,” said Blake.  “It’s an admirably cold-blooded strategy.”

 

“I’m not so certain I’d approve of it _that_ readily,” Avon observed mildly.

 

Blake shrugged.  “Yet we are alive, the blight is ended, and–” he raised an eyebrow at the Prince Regent, “I assume that Boh Brum El is unlikely to join forces with the Federation?”

 

The Prince Regent nodded grimly.  “The Federation will not get a molecule of synchysite from us, that’s for certain. The people of Boh Brum El might appear superficial and flighty, but rest assured we know a traitorous viper when we see one.”

 

And rage and threaten as she would, Servalan found she had no choice but to eventually hand over the antidote in exchange for her freedom.

 

* * *

 

 Blake took a bite of a strawberry and wrinkled his nose thoughtfully.  He hadn’t tasted a strawberry for a decade or so, but did it taste differently with Avon’s taste buds? 

 

He pulled his thoughts back from Avon’s mouth to the party going on around them.  “I still disagree with the decision to let her go,” he said to the Prince Regent.

 

He shrugged.  “We are not at war with the Federation yet, and we _did_ invite her to come, albeit under rather false pretences.  My people would think badly of treating a guest so poorly, and I’m not keen on losing the next elections.”

 

Avon made a startled snorting sound.  “You _elect_ your Prince Regent?”

 

A look of surprise.  “Of course!”

 

“Do you also elect your King?”

 

“Don’t be silly,” said the Prince Regent.  “Who needs a King when we have a have a Prince Regent?”

 

“I see,” said Avon.

 

“Well,” said Blake, “now that everything seems to be cleared up with the blight, there’s another matter we need to discuss with you. You see, when we teleported here–” he ignored Avon’s look and went on “– something about your sun’s radiation interacted oddly with our ship’s electromagnetic field and–”

 

“That would explain it!” exclaimed the Prince Regent.  “We noticed some anomalous readings when you teleported down, and weren’t sure how to interpret them. Let me guess– did this cause an exchange of mental energy patterns?”  He made a _tutting_ noise at their expressions.  “You should have said something sooner. We’ve noticed our sun sometimes has an odd effect on equipment imported from other worlds–O-type radiation and all that.”

 

“We’d noticed too,” Avon said.

 

The Prince Regent brushed his hands off briskly.  “Well, it’s a simple matter to fix, I’m sure we can explain it to that Orac fellow we talked to earlier. We’ll have the two of you back where you belong in no time at all.”

 

Blake bowed deeply to him.  “That would be an immense relief.  Our thanks.”

 

“It’s the least we could do, Mister Avon–” The Prince Regent cut himself off.  “Or I suppose that is _Mister Blake_ , is it not?  Oh, we must do proper re-introductions all around, then!”

 

And with that he pulled the two of them off to re-make the acquaintance of a few dozen functionaries, chattering all the time.

 

* * *

 

 The _Liberator_ re-formed around him, and Blake sighed in relief to feel his own familiar body weighing him down.

 

“What?” snapped Avon, and Blake realized Vila was covering his mouth with his hand.  Avon straightened his ascot.  “It’s no more absurd that some of the items in our own wardrobe room.”

 

“Ah,” said Vila and wisely said nothing more on the topic.  “Orac’s cranky because he did all that work and then you got the cure for the blight and the solution for the teleporter problem without him.  Said not to waste his time with any more trivial calibrations and cut himself off in a huff.”

 

“Well, just let him sulk for a bit,” Blake said, rolling his shoulders experimentally.  They were a little stiffer than he was used to.

 

“So what was it like?” Vila asked Avon from the console.  “Being Blake, I mean.”

 

Avon–and it was _so good_ to see him again from a distance that Blake had to resist a sudden urge to hug him–rolled his eyes.  “At least it’s over.”

 

Vila shot a smile at Blake.  “You should have eaten a lot of spicy food to give him indigestion.”

 

“Trust Vila to have some deep thoughts on the existential meaning of such a profound experience,” Avon said wryly.  He seemed in quite a good mood, actually.  “Blake, may I have a word with you in private?”

 

Blake stumbled slightly as he stepped off the teleporter bay, recovered and turned it into a stride just in time.  “Of course, Avon.  Where–?”

 

“Either of our quarters should do,” Avon said diffidently. 

 

“Very well, then.  I’ll meet you in mine in an hour,” said Blake, who suspected he would want to be on his own turf.

 

* * *

 

 As Avon came into Blake’s cabin in the way that he had of making it seem entirely his, Blake found himself remembering the feel of that scar beneath his fingers, smooth and twisting.  The feel of it within his own skin, a perpetual faint tightness in the muscle.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” said Avon, pacing back and forth along the length of the cabin.

 

“To be back and in my own skin?  Certainly.”

 

“No, I mean, I hope you’re happy that you’ve closed off any avenue I might one day have to negotiate with Servalan. After all, thanks to your ridiculous histrionics, she’s convinced I’m in love with you.” The words were annoyed, but the tone was not.  “I’m actually disappointed that she accepted me doing something so ludicrously out of character as sacrificing myself for you.”

 

“Quite ludicrous,” agreed Blake.  “That must be why you didn’t agree that you were not the man she wanted to kill.”

 

Avon missed a step as he prowled, then glared at him.  “You panicked, Blake.  You were blurting out nonsense, saying anything to stop her from shooting me.  She can hardly be blamed for reaching the _bizarre_ conclusion she did.”  The ever-so-slight emphasis on _bizarre_ tilted the sentence up into something of a question, something of a challenge.

 

This time, as his pacing carried him past Blake once more, Blake reached out and grabbed his elbow, swinging him until they were face-to-face. 

 

Avon frowned, then reached out and touched the corner of Blake’s mouth.  “It’s strange,” he said as Blake went very still and tried not to do anything rash. “You look different now.” He moved the corner of Blake’s mouth upward, very slightly.  “I know how your smile feels from the inside. How good–”

 

He leaned forward and brought his mouth to Blake’s – gently at first, and then Blake heard himself make a ragged sound and everything went haywire and fuzzy around the edges for a while, until he found himself on the bed straddling one of Avon’s legs. One of his hands lay where he knew that old scar lay, his thumb tracing it slowly.  He knew how it felt from within the skin, now.  That might take some getting used to.

 

Avon didn’t seem inclined to break the silence, merely looking at Blake as if he had missed seeing him.  The thought would have seemed ludicrous just a day before, but enough implausible things had happened since then that Blake couldn’t rule it out. 

 

“Well,” he said at last, mostly to give Avon a straight line so Blake could hear his voice again,  “at least you don’t have to worry about me nibbling on your fingers anymore.”

 

Avon reached up to touch Blake’s face again.  One finger came to rest on Blake’s lower lip, and he shook his head, the corner of his mouth tilting.  “As usual, Blake,” he noted, “you’re quite wrong."


End file.
